


Blonde

by incendiarySongbird



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, black adventures comic, xyventures
Genre: Do the main characters even have dads, Gen, how does procreation work in Pokémon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 13:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12133437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendiarySongbird/pseuds/incendiarySongbird
Summary: In which Yvonne thinks about her father.





	Blonde

**Author's Note:**

> Based in XYvebthres by Artist Black. Honestly, this comic is baller, and I'm in love with Yvonne.
> 
> I wrote this solo for an rp tbh and Sycamore was a woman

He's not the nicest man you've ever met or the most interesting. He's not even the most mysterious. But he's your father, and you want to know what he was like. You need to know.

But Mom won't talk, all of his stuff is gone, and nobody remembers. All you have is a photo, a photo of a man in a bike helmet leaning on his motorcycle. 

Figures... You can't even see his face. You can't see any of his defining features under that riding uniform. You can't tell if he was blonde like you, or had any freckles like you, or smiled as much as you do. All you can see is a man leaning against a bike.

No color. No personality. No sense of who he was or what that means to you.

It's sickening. 

You haven't thought about him in a long time. You have no reason to think about him, but Father's Day came and left, and it left you feeling so lonely. It left you staring at that old photograph of him. You realize that you don't even know his name. 

You leave the photo out for the next few days. Usually, you hide it in a book or a drawer or under your pillow, but for the next few days, you leave it on your kitchen table. You pass by it, and pay it passing glances. You think about him. 

A lot.

A month passes, and you're being paid to design an outfit for Korrina of Shalour City. You're not sure what you want to make, but you do need the dress form that's in your attic back home because the one in your apartment is currently being used. 

You go home and say hello to your mother. You make your way through the house. Your old room isn't yours anymore. It's being used as additional storage. Your bed is crowded by cardboard boxes. Your computer is plastered with sticky notes and reminders. There's a treadmill next to your window. Your heart aches.

You climb the ladder to your dusty attic. Late morning sunlight filters in through the lone, dirty window. The room is tinted yellow. You cough as the dust rises, filtering through the space. You wave your hand in front of you in an attempt to clear the air. It doesn't work.

You take a few steps inside, trying to maneuver over boxes and wade through tangled Christmas lights and broken furniture your mother never had the heart to throw out. Your dress form is at the far end of the attic. You can see it in the distance. It's torn and stuffing is leaking out of the neck, but it's yours, and it's still here.

You trip. Your ankles get caught in hastily deposited extension cords, and you fall on your knees. The palms of your hands are skinned, and tears well in your eyes, but you're a adult now. You don't cry. Instead, you mutter profanities when you realize red is seeping through your white stockings. You'll never be able to wear those again.

Your mother calls to you, asking if everything's all right. You call back as you untangle yourself from the extension cords. Your skirt is covered in dirt, and your stockings are bloodied, but you're fine. 

You knocked over a pile of magazines when you fell. They're all over the floor, and you know you shouldn't have looked. Something twisted in your stomach, warning you not to look, but you do. 

You're unimpressed at first. They're just vintage porno mags, nothing you haven't seen before. You decide to pick one up, and a photo falls out. It's a picture of a man. You recognize that riding uniform. You recognize your father.

He's leaning on that same monocycle, but this time his helmet is sitting on the seat. You still can't see his face. The photo was taken from behind, but you do notice one thing. Blonde. A mess of blonde hair right in the center of the photograph, the same blonde as your own hair. You hold your breath. It's not much. In fact, it's very little, but it's something, and that's all you've ever wanted. You wanted something to connect you to him, and now you have it.

You glance over to the box the magazines fell out of, and a name is scribbled across the side. Julien. And now you have a name.

You gather the magazines and put them back in the box. You don't know what you could gain from old porn, but a photo fell out of one of them. Maybe there could be more. Maybe you could finally see his face. Maybe...

Your heart is racing as you stand alone in your attic cradling a box of vintage porn. A sad thing to connect you to you father, but it's all you have. It is the only thread you can grasp. You couldn't stay here. 

You climb down the ladder to the attic, your dress form still broken, still discarded in the far side of the attic. You don't need it anymore, you decide. You'll just buy a new one back in Lumiose City. What does a dress form matter anyway? You have a name now. You have a photograph.

You have a hard time getting off that night. No matter how hard you try, no matter which magazine you try, your thoughts are riddled with that of your father, of the man with the motorcycle. For the first time, you wonder where he is, what he's like, if he has a new family.

You wonder if he likes that family more than he likes you.

You cry.

You skim through his magazines, hoping you find something. A picture, a sticky note, a scribble in the margins. You don't find anything like that, but you do find an awfully familiar centerfold. 

Your face flushes as you recognize Augustine Sycamore looking back at you from the center of the magazine. Was he... Was Kalos' professor a model in his youth? No...

You consider calling him. You consider asking just to clear your conscience, but you're in no condition to speak. You're not ready to receive closure on something like this, something so personal yet so foreign. You don't want to know if the man between those pages is the man you've grown to love.

You suppose that's a parallel between you an your father. You have the same taste in men, and that's enough for now. That's the thread you decide to grasp.

You fall asleep thinking about him. About your father.

But you dream about him. About Sycamore.


End file.
